óÓò
Don't ask me, I don't know.
óÓò
Set during season nine while Tango was the Dungeon Master
Tango
The fire had been devastating.
The wounds it left were worse.
Haze was slowly consuming his world, leaving him in nothing but pure agony. The only water he had to sooth the burns was the blood gushing from them, but that was too warm to help at all. He was stranded in the middle of hell, with no comfort but the piglins eyeing him warily.
***
The next time Tango woke up was in someone - Impulse's - arms being carried through the sky. He was shivering despite the fact he was overwhelmingly, suffocatingly hot. His whole body felt as if it were on fire, though the blood had clotted.
He was not meant for the heat, not anymore. The icey spirits of the Dungeon had laid claim to his soul and now berated him in scorching agony for dating to betraying the frost which now lined his veins. And so he burned, even if he was far from the lava which had ravaged him. Even the warmth of the arms holding him was too intense, and he tried to squirm away.
"Steady...you're...not...anymore," Impulse said, though Tango could barely make anything out. He whimpered softly in protest, but Impulse continued talking. "...going home."
Home. Home was good. Home was cold. He had forgotten his duty to the cold, and thus paid the price, almost with his own life. That Impulse hadn't saved him he would have continued to burn, but now he wouldn't. Now he could return home.
With the thought of the comforting snow in mind he fell into darkness once more.
***
He awoke screaming as the pain struck him, though the blow was soon soothed by the cold. Tango opened his eyes, finding himself in the Dungeon on a bed frozen stiff. He blinked, brushing the icicles off his eyelashes. He scooped up snow in his bare hands, holding it gently as it ended his wounds.
"I am sorry I left, my child," he muttered to it.
A faint voice in his mind replied, We are grateful for your return.
óÓò
